


whisper gently that you love me so

by circus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Smut, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/circus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Merry Christmas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	whisper gently that you love me so

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Batman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/gifts).



> Title has nothing to do with fic >_>

Dean's a rushing hail. Sam's a floating breeze.

Dean's a raging storm of whirlwinds. Sam's a fresh, warm current from the sea, piercing through Dean’s confusion, through layers of skin and blood and fumbling thoughts, seeping into his heart, into Sam’s home.

Sam's always there, even if he isn’t. But it isn’t enough. Sam may be everything Dean needed, but sometimes if Sam is standing there, right there in front of him, gray blue eyes piercing in concern, there isn’t enough of Sam. Dean needs to reach out, hands a hair’s breadth away from, feeling Sam but not touching, until his heart nearly explodes in his eyes, until Sam smiles and says his name, until Sam reaches out and holds his hands, until they push their foreheads together and Sam lifts their hands to trace Dean’s temple, down to his ear, down to his chin, rest their hands flat on his chest, over his heart.

Dean's a tree, roots deep in the earth. Sam is climbing ivy, all over Dean, in Dean, piercing his very core, keeping his core, being his core.

Sam dances with Dean when the skies were gray, and it rains. Sam is a single tear drop that stops the hurricane that is Dean, that makes Dean stutter and cry down slowly, and Sam is the bed of moss that catches him as he falls.

Sam is morning and Dean is night, and they meld together, like dew drops on petals, at dawn.

At dawn, Sam likes to hum into Dean’s neck, and Dean likes to hold him close. At dawn, Sam likes to lift his head and look into Dean’s eyes, and Dean likes to smile at him, at the being that was not him and him and part of him and who he was part of.

Sometime noon they talk about things, nice things, soft things, like tea and coffee and insults and pie, as Dean drives and Sam keeps his hand on Dean’s thigh.

In the evening they eat quick stuff, raw stuff, half-done, clumsily made - sandwiches, burgers, burnt steak.

At night they stand under the shower together, water fusing them together, their fingers linked and breathing heavy. Minutes purr into hours and they stumbled out, breathless and shy, droplets still in their hair, smiling.

At midnight Sam leans over, and their hearts race as their breaths warm each other’s faces, as Dean’s mouth trembles open a little and Sam crinkles his eyes and likes the way Dean is shaking slightly, a bit scared, a bit excited. He nuzzles Dean’s ear and Dean relaxes, dark green irises lightening, and he rolls his head back against the sofa cushions and laughs low in his throat, Sam nibbling at his jaw.

“You know something?” he half-sighs, and Dean shakes his head.  
“Look up.” Dean opens his eyes, and Sam feels the muscles tighten underneath him.  
“You’re _no_ -“  
“Merry Christmas,” Sam grins into his lips, and Dean looks up into his eyes one more time, before his own flutter shut and his hands climb up to caress Sam, _Sammy_. Sammy.


End file.
